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The living room smells like cinnamon and wet wool, a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does—like Shawn’s thrift-store flannel layered over Cory’s mom’s hand-knit throw blankets. Cory’s knees dig into the shag carpet as he dumps the contents of the plastic bag between them: two skeins of yarn (one black as a chalkboard, the other gold like the late-afternoon sun slicing through the blinds), plastic hooks still sealed in crinkly packaging, and a pamphlet titled Jungle Friends: Your First Stitches!
Shawn picks it up between two fingers, squinting at the cartoon jaguar on the cover. "This better not be like the time you ‘taught’ me origami and we just folded napkins into spitballs."
Cory rolls his eyes, already separating the gold yarn with practiced fingers. "Those were cranes, Shawn. Abstract cranes." The TV hums to life with the grainy opening shot of Wild Brazilia, the narrator’s voice slow as honey as a jaguar pads across the screen. Shawn’s breath hitches—just for a second—before he grabs the black yarn.
"You’re such a dork," he mutters, but his knuckles brush Cory’s when he reaches for the hook. Cory pretends not to notice.
Three hours later, Shawn’s "jaguar" resembles a melted licorice whip, but Cory’s is passable—if you squint.
"Looks like the car," Shawn deadpans, poking its lopsided face.
Cory grins. "Told you I’d make it happen."
The cocoa’s gone cold. Neither of them moves to reheat it.